George Harrison. I used to practice his handwriting in school, studiously sketching his strange and rebellious 'G' and that printed out 'H' of his signature, which seemed so much to define the man himself: doing things his way, despite what society deems 'correct'.

I received poor marks on my report card for my sloppy handwriting after that, which had formerly been pretty nice n neat. I decided: if George could get away with it, so would I.

I loved that he was the youngest Beatle and all that rigamaroe with him getting kicked out of Hamburg while on tour --- for being too young (by a year)! I loved that. From the beginning he was ahead of his time, hanging 'round those 'older' boys, those rough boys, those Quarrymen, John and Paul.

Then they kicked out Pete Best, simply because he wasn't really best at all and they got that wayyyyy older guy Richard who donned a fake name and wore all those strange rings on his fingers and everything -- and that's when all the REAL trouble started with "our George"...taking off to Hamburg to play dark places with names like "The Rat Celler", experimenting in drugs, hanging 'round that American Poet who smokes the funny cigarettes, that Bob Dylan fellow...yeah. Then talking the lads into going off to Bangladesh to meet that Ravi Shankar dude and that Maharishi Mahesh Yogi; seeking enlightenment and learning to play an honest-to-God sitar, adding that eastern spice to their Brit music.

George was the most real of 'em all. Always searching, always curious.

Doing all that Python work with the Rutles, and no matter what: able to smirk that crooked grin of his at the World, at Society, at even himself...and coming full circle to hook up with Dylan again after all those years, all those years, to Travel in the Wilbury way.

Married, divorced, married again, sued for "My Sweet Lord", yeah the man, he's so fine...cleaning himself out, cleaning himself up, making a difference in so many lives, so many lives...including mine.

I devoured every Beatle book from every library, memorized all the facts, practiced my gear-fab Liverpool accent, my sideways smirk, the slouch, the strut, tried to figure out the chords to "Do You Wanna Know a Secret?" --- and the ultimate: handsewed the legs on my own Levi's to make cigarette-thin skin-tight, just like his. Just like his. My mother had a fit. She started to complain about my sloppy handwriting and my cigarette-legged trousers and my sudden practice of consuming mass quantities of caffeine and staying up late and blasting my stereo and always dressing in black, always wearing that black Peacoat, that beat-up top-hat I'd picked up at a garage sale ("just like a Hard Days' Night!"), and then I started smoking. I transcended and transmogrified from the innocent to the lithe; I mutated from a clean-cut kid from a working class family (just like his!) to someone who preferred to hang out in damp, dark sweaty basements, listening to and performing Rock-n-Roll music. With each Beatle album that I acquired (and I bought them in fairly chronological order), I went through a metamorphosis.

And every time something crummy in my life would happen, I had that Beatle energy to get me through. I'd slouch in my chair, like George. I'd retort with spartan cocky answers to people that were used to getting treated with respect. "And who's so-n-so, when they're at home?" I'd smirk, trying to make the line sound just like Georgie's when he meets that big-wig dude in "A Hard Days' Night". And when things get bad, I still do that Liverpool accent in me 'ead and smirk that quiet, sarcastic sideways grin. Oh, man....George helped to make me what I am today.

He was the most sublime, pure-minded Poet of his days. The quiet one. The Enlightened One. He was the one who really knew, who really KNEW, what time it was. And still waters, they run deep.